TO A VERY SMALL PINE.

What song is in thy heart, Thou puny tree? Weak pinelet that thou art,— Trembling at every shock, Thy feebleness doth mock Thy high degree. When rage o’er sea and land The tempests wild, How canst thou e’er withstand Their might, or baffle them With that frail, quivering stem, Poor forest child? Nay, wherefore scoff at thy Dimensions small? For, folded close, I spy A tiny bud, scarce seen Within its cradle green; And after all, In ages yet to come Thy stately form, No longer dwarfed and dumb, But chanting to the breeze Sublime, sweet melodies, Shall breast the storm! Beneath thine outstretched arms Shall children rest; While, safe from all alarms, Within thy shadows deep Wild birds their tryst shall keep And weave their nest. May such a lot be his Who tends thee now! With heavenly harmonies Serene amid his foes, Outstretching as he grows In root and bough.